Poetry

Twelve murderers are eating their dinners, veal cutlet and walnuts, pickled pigs' feet. Somebody sticks his head through the door. The inevitable question is asked. Not me, says Biter; nor me, says Shooter. We didn't do it, says Choker and Stabber. Nor me, nor me, say all the others. The door closes with a bang….

The man with the muscles      He'll kill her Naw, he just ‘instructs' her      Opera operate. Opt. Opponents. He-man lift her up and slam her down      Will she land on her ass or spine? Hand-become-hammer      He gonna break her neck some time No matter how many or whose side      Bludgeons. Do harm, make cry. Plow ponies…

Whenever I am leafing through a book and come upon a      single hair, for a moment I believe it belongs to the author, and that the book, too, is still the author's, and I must      give it back. Then I come to my senses. Usually, it is just a hair from a      mustache, and then…

We must have clamored for the same mother, hurried for      the same womb. I know it now as I read that my birthday is his. Since the first time I saw his picture, I sensed something— and with a fierce bonding and animosity began following his career. Look where I am and look where he…

the Butcher the Baker NOT the Banker the Athlete (ghetto-to-flanker) the Schoolboy (sent to the sink) the Mechanic the Auto-Body-Man the Roofer (eats out of the can) the Baby (big joke) the Farmer (his back is broke) the Soldier (he can shoot) the Stripper (snorts too much toot) Why does the sheet-metal man who works…

He stood before a sea of envelopes, as others stand over a plunging surf. One by one he began to open them, to read the letters inside. Since he had no hope of replying, he pictured them adrift in the distance. Free to walk by the water, he did. He saw the wild ducks, far…

Although they fashioned their spears on the lathe of our technology we had to admit we liked watching them with their bare chests and heavy metal candor they lent a sort of backyard charm to the universe until even the doctor and his assistant were snapping their fingers nodding their heads and using everything they…

We passed the open Bible round & waited. Round robin, & it was my brother Walter's turn. He knucklebrowed the passage, grunted, then began. “Yeah, here. Right here it says: Shepherds in the fields. . . keeping watch. . .” He found what it was he wanted. “The angel of the Lord. . .shone around…

Coming from the wings, he leapt onto the raised opera-set built to lift his libretto—ten years of work— into the national atmosphere of fanfare, and he missed: down on his stomach, pasted prone, a spread-eagled grunt, and a gasp from the audience that sucked up applause for the two or three seconds it took him…